


The Short Straw

by Crystalwren



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-15
Updated: 2008-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 01:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalwren/pseuds/Crystalwren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So they're off on yet another of Yuri's little adventures, and they find themselves at an aging manor house with too many drafts and too few bedrooms...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Short Straw

...and so Conrart and Günter both draw the short straws and they find themselves sharing a bed in a chilly, musty room. At least the sheets are clean. Conrart pulls on thick socks and nightshirt while Günter blows gently on a piece of kindling to start a fire.

“It’s cold,” Conrart says pointlessly and Günter hums in reply. There’s the faintest whiff of smoke but the kindling refuses to catch and Günter lays it back down on the hearthstone, takes his tinderbox back up again and strikes more sparks. Conrart warms his fingers over the lone, miserable candle they were given and because there is nothing else to do, watches Günter as he cups the fragile little flame between his fingertips like it’s something inexpressibly precious. “Where’s Wolfram where you need him?” and Günter doesn’t reply, just smiles thinly because the lordling had been even more obnoxious than usual on this journey and although Günter is too polite to say it, Conrart knows that he’s relieved that it’s Wolfram’s older brother and notWolfram himself that he has to share a bed with.

The flame finally strengthens and grows stronger. Günter sets the little bundle of threads and shredded paper into the neatly stacked wood and leans forward intently. The light catches his pale hair and it glows a vivid, bloody orange and Conrart shivers in a way that has nothing to do with cold. He climbs between the sheets and turns his face away when Günter begins to undress. The rustle of cloth grates across raw nerves; Conrart swallows nervously, his mouth filled with  
saliva, and the opposite side of the bed dips as Günter climbs in.

“Goodnight,” Günter says as Conrart blows out the candle. Conrart does not reply.

Lying there in the dimness, his hands clenched into fists, Conrart watches the fire and listens to Günter’s breath slow and deepen into a soft rasp and tries to calculate how long it’s been since he last had sex. When the numbers start coming perilously close to a decade Conrart gives up and instead thinks of how much he’d like to masturbate, imagines doing it right here, right now, Günter laying asleep and oblivious beside him. He thinks of ejaculating into Günter’s beautiful hair. He imagines the older man waking up in the morning, mystified at the strange substance tangling the strands and shakes with silent laughter at the thought, deeply thrilled and rather guilty at the same time. He rolls over instead, his back to Günter’s and fingers himself as silently and carefully as he can but he doesn’t come, just fells tingly and relaxed and somehow, dozes off with his hand still under his nightshirt.

He starts awake when a strong arm drapes itself around him, it seems like he’s slept only a minute but when he glances at the fire, disorientated, he sees that it’s actually died down quite a bit. Time has passed. Günter mutters something and Conrart feels the older man’s erection press against the small of his back.

He freezes, absolutely still. Doesn’t breathe, even, then Günter mutters again and Conrart realises that the Lord von Christ is still asleep. The erection is nothing personal, just a reaction to the heat of Conrart’s body and despite himself, he’s disappointed. All the fantasies that he’s ever had about the man are just that: fantasies. Günter has always been scrupulously honourable and Conrart has always told himself that it’s better that way. Still, he finds himself grinning at the sheer absurdity of it, like the trashy novels that he stole from his mother’s secret stash and read for the sake of sex education when he was still just a boy. He remembers the earliest fantasies he had about Günter when he was in the academy, one amongst rows and rows of beds in the dorm rooms full of horny teenagers all with busy hands in the night, all thinking of beautiful, graceful, brilliant, kind Günter, although Conrart’s thoughts were more of domination and brutality than the dreams of seduction and tender lovemaking that his full Demon companions shared nervously over breakfast. Pushing Günter’s perfect face into the dirt, sullying it forever, fucking him while he screamed for mercy, that was Conrart’s favourite. These days Conrart likes to have a little more class: chains of gold and ropes of silk and a consensual partner.

Conrart also likes to think that he’s a changed man, that he’s grown up, no longer needs silly crushes or games, that he can be content with a relationship of mutual respect and friendship with a beautiful, utterly unattainable man like Günter, but the younger Conrart is screaming inside his head, telling him that in a century’s time he’ll look back on this missed opportunity and regret, _regret, _and he knows that if he doesn’t do it now he never will. Arching his back, he shimmies slowly up the mattress until Günter’s erection is pressing between his buttocks and he rocks gently back and forth.__

“Conrart? What?” Günter’s voice slurred by sleep and Conrart twists around and accidently wacks Günter across the nose with his elbow and the older man wakes up fully and Conrart realises that he’s committed now. He lunges forward with his mouth open, encounters Günter’s chin and moves up and locks on. Pressing Günter into the mattress, scrambling on top of him becomes a sort of wrestling match and Conrart can’t tell if Günter is genuinely reluctant or just surprised. He slides his tongue into the other’s mouth and gets bitten. Not much of a bite, more a nip really, but the little pain is enough to shock him into some kind of sanity and he gives up, just lies there on top of Günter and they’re both panting, both erect, and Conrart wiggles his sweating toes and thinks about just how unsexy bed socks really are.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Günter says at last, colourless and kind of dazed and Conrart bites him hard on the collarbone.

“If you dare say something inane like, ‘You’re a son to me,’ I do believe I shall _beat_ you.” Günter snorts in reply, then gasps when Conrart shifts and rubs their erections together.

“This really isn’t right,” and Conrart knows this, knows just the sort of pedestal that Yuri has placed him upon, knows just how Günter feels about sex outside of marriage, knows that there’s always been something weird and unacknowledged going on between his mother and Günter, knows that Günter’s game of courtly love with their king will change forever, knows that this has the potential to hurt a lot of people. Conrart knows. He knows all this but for once, for once in his life he doesn’t want to be honourable and righteous, he wants to fuck Günter into the mattress and maybe it’s love, maybe it’s the pent-up frustration of sixty years of masturbation fantasies, maybe it’s none or both of these things.

“Have you ever _done_ this before?” he asks and Günter growls impatiently and shoves him off.

“I’m a hundred and fifty years old, Conrart, what do you think?” Günter gets out of bed, feeds the fire, wakes it up. He lights the candle too and the room is as bright as he can make it. Conrart takes the opportunity to toe off his socks and kick them off the other side of the bed. Günter stands and watches him narrowly, and his pretty face is closed off, remote. All the same he slides back into bed but draws away when Conrart reaches for him. “What, exactly, do you want from me?”

The resounding answer is _sex_ of course, but behind that is a big tangle of love and admiration and hero worship and resentment and Conrart knows that “I want  
you to fuck me,” is a highly unsatisfactory answer on both their parts. Instead he says, “To be honest with you, I’m not really sure,” and Günter looks unimpressed.

“Do tell me when you are certain,” he says with frosty politeness and Conrart groans.

“Don’t make this complicated,” he begs, and reaches for Günter again, puts his hands on the other’s shoulders, feels the powerful muscles sliding smoothly under cloth and skin and Conrart’s calloused fingertips. “I don’t do this casually or on a whim, but please, please, don’t make it complicated. Please.” He leans forward, presses his mouth against Günter’s mouth, feels it soften underneath his. Günter sighs and falls back onto the mattress.“There are many reasons why this is a very bad idea.”

“Absolutely,” Conrart agrees, carefully settling down on top of him. He mouths Günter’s neck, slides down to gnaw again at his collarbone. He thinks about talking dirty and fucking rough and knows that he could do all those things. He also knows that if he did Günter would never lie with him again. Instead Conrart hitches up Günter’s shirt and licks the older man’s hairless stomach, tastes the bitter soap while Günter strokes his hair. He rubs the cloth mounded up over Günter’s erection, can hardly believe it when Günter pulls him up to kiss him. Tongues sliding together, Günter rolls themover so that he’s on top and they rock together for a while, gently, kissing gently. Eventually Günter stops, disappears beneath the covers to take a delighted Conrart into his mouth. Conrart pants and writhes and grins, of _course_ Günter has done it before and like everything else, he does it perfectly. When Conrart comes it’s like he disappears for a while and when he comes back, Günter’s knees are on either side of Conrart’s hips and he’s touching himself.

It’s not quite the same as the fantasy Conrart had of ejaculating into Günter’s hair, but it’s definitely better. Conrart smiles, and watches, and thinks that drawing the short straw to share a bed is the best thing that’s ever happened to him.


End file.
